


make it feel like christmas

by bluelines



Category: Hockey RPF, Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Bad Flirting, Christmas, F/F, Office Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 01:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelines/pseuds/bluelines
Summary: Meghan needs help planning the office's annual holiday party.





	make it feel like christmas

“No,” Kacey says, “I’m not doing it this year, I’m serious. Meghan, listen to me. I’m not even in town. Why would I plan a party I’m not even going to be in town to attend?”

“I don’t know,” Meghan says, “maybe because the spirit of Christmas is giving. Maybe because you love me and you don’t want me to suffer.”

“You volunteer,” Kacey says. “You volunteer every year. I don’t feel bad for you.”

“What if someone volunteers to fill your spot and they’re awful?” Meghan asks. Kacey makes a face, jiggling the printer tray. It’s old and it takes some maneuvering to get the printer to accept a new stack of paper. Kacey’s usually the only one who can get it to work.

“Nobody in this office is awful,” Kacey lies.

“Kace,” Meghan says, “please. As my Christmas gift.”

“Not happening,” Kacey says, “I already bought you a scalp massager and two bottles of wine. That’s all you’re getting.”

Meghan groans. All things being equal, she’d rather plan the company Christmas party alone than do it with someone other than Kacey. She can’t think of a single person she’d trust with any of the things that Kacey usually takes care of, or has for the last two years.

“Who goes to Hawaii for Christmas, anyway?” she says, and Kacey shrugs.

-

Soon, Meghan sends the email out.

 _Hey gang_ , it reads, _Kacey decided to bail on us all for Christmas, so I need a new deputy-Christmas-party-organizer to help me get everything planned. Please let me know if you’re interested! :)_

Of course, nobody answers her. It’s not that they don’t like her or appreciate it. Actually, it’s the opposite; they like and appreciate her so much that nobody wants to interfere, and also, everyone already has plans. Not to mention Meghan is theoretically capable of doing all of this herself, or she would be if she didn’t have four clients at a time to juggle. As it stands, she has more books to read, more grammar to correct than she has time to handle, especially on top of party planning, so when someone finally responds to her two days later, she’s beyond relieved. 

_Hey,_ the response says, _I just started here, so I’m not sure what all this entails, but if nobody has offered to help yet I’d be glad to lend a hand._

It’s a name that Meghan only barely recognizes. She knew they had gotten a new account manager, someone in publishing services to replace Jeff, but all the sales folks are on the other side of the building, so she doesn’t really know any of them very well. She googles her new helper-- Gillian Apps--before she responds _Yes OMG thank you so much._

-

The first time she actually meets Gillian, it’s totally by accident. She’s in the break room, bent over at her waist, shoving her arm way back into the back of the fridge. The downside to getting to the office early is that everyone puts their lunches in front of hers. When she grabs hers to bring it out she knocks someone’s tupperware off the top shelf, and just manages to catch it with her other hand.

“Wow,” a voice says from behind her, “impressive reflexes.”

Meghan turns, tucking the tupperware under her arm like a football. The other woman in the break room with her is taller than her, with shoulders that are broad but in a way that fit her and her dark blazer just fine. She smiles, and Meghan tries to place her. Accounts, she thinks. And then she thinks, Oh. That’s Gillian. It has to be.

“Played softball in college,” Meghan says. Gillian makes a comical ‘impressed’ face and holds her hand out.

“Well thanks,” she says, “since that’s my lunch.”

Meghan hands it over.

“Looks good,” she says, even though she didn’t actually see anything.

“Lebanese couscous,” Gillian says. “You’re Meghan, right?”

“I am Meghan,” Meghan confirms, closing the fridge behind her. Her kale and mushroom wrap feels a lot less impressive considering Gillian has _couscous_. She wonders if Gillian made it herself, or if she has someone at home that cooks for her, has dinner waiting when she gets off work. She doesn’t seem like the type, somehow. She sort of seems more like the cooking type. Meghan’s not sure what that thought even means.

“Thanks for volunteering,” she says, “seriously, I was gonna have to do it alone.”

“Oh, no problem,” Gillian says, “things are a little slow in sales right now because the big Christmas push was done before I got here, so…”

“Slow,” Meghan laughs, “wow, I’m jealous, you wanna read some manuscripts? I have papercuts for days.”

“A hazard of the editorial profession,” Gillian observes, and Meghan actually laughs, even though Gillian sounds like a complete and utter nerd. It’s not like anyone who works at a major publisher is cool. They’re all different kinds of bookish. Meghan is probably the coolest person she knows at the office. Kacey calls her their resident jock.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Gillian says, before Meghan can decide what she wants to ask most. 

-

“So I met the new publishing services director today,” Meghan says. 

“Riveting,” Kacey says, from the other side of the cubicle. 

“She’s hot,” Meghan says, and Kacey leans back in her chair so that she can look at Meghan, her ancient reading glasses slipping down her nose. 

“I’m interested,” Kacey says. 

“She’s not your type,” Meghan says. She should really be reading, but she needs the break. The nonfiction she’s editing is so dry that she found herself stalking Gillian on every social network, not that there was much to find. 

“Less interested, but single enough that I am still interested,” Kacey continues. 

“She’s brunette,” Meghan says, “tall. Taller than me. Big smile. Big um, shoulders.”

“So she’s big,” Kacey says, “sounds like your type, not mine.”

“I _said_ she wasn’t your type,” Meghan mumbles, but she can feel herself blushing. Kacey takes her glasses off and leans into Meghan’s space. Meghan goes back to her manuscript, and tries to care more about the evolution of corn alongside the agricultural and industrial revolutions in America.

“You’re telling me cause _you_ want to hit it,” Kacey says, after inspecting Meghan for a few seconds, “you could have just said that.”

“She’s helping me plan the Christmas party,” Meghan says, like that’s going to stop her and not enable her. Kacey cackles.

“Don’t you have poetry to read?” Meghan asks, stuffing her earphone back into her ear. Kacey plucks it out and turns Meghan’s desk lamp off.

“Is she gay?” Kacey asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Meghan says, “at least from the way she wears her watch.”

Kacey makes a face like _please, there’s no way you can tell from just that,_ as if she’s never done the same thing. Meghan pulls up a picture on Gillian’s Instagram, which she seems to only update three times a year. It’s from two years ago, but Gillian basically looks the same. 

“Oh wow,” Kacey says, when Meghan tilts her phone, “she really is wearing the hell out of that watch. And she has gay hands.”

“I told you,” Meghan says, locking her phone and flipping her desk lamp back on.

“You did not tell me she had gay hands,” Kacey says. The fact is that Meghan didn’t want to say it out loud and admit she had noticed it. Gillian has great hands. 

“You’ve gotta hit that,” Kacey says.

“I’ve gotta finish the corn book,” Meghan says, “and plan a Christmas party.”

“And then you’re gonna hit it,” Kacey says, and Meghan doesn’t argue with that.

-

“So,” Gillian says, “how does this work?”

They’re in the break room again, meeting over lunch. It’s been two days since the first time they ran into each other, and Gillian has a very fancy looking salad in front of her that makes Meghan’s look a little wilted and sparse, but she’s not comparing them. Mostly she’s resisting the urge to ask Gillian if she makes all her food herself. 

“I have a spreadsheet,” Meghan says, “I’ll add you to it on Google Docs.”

“Oh,” Gillian says, “it’s that kind of party.”

“Yes,” Meghan says, “the dress code is cocktail dress, and last year we had a chocolate fountain.”

Gillian is trying really hard not to react to that. Meghan can see her trying to break out into a huge, goofy grin, and it takes her at least three full seconds of wrangling her facial features and a full bite of her salad for her to compose herself into something neutral. Even after all that Meghan can see in Gillian’s eyes that she wants to laugh, that she’s wondering what she got herself into. 

“Wow,” Gillian says, finally.

“I’m kidding,” Meghan says, and Gillian does smile then. She tries to spear her salad again without looking and completely misses it. When her fork hits the table instead, Meghan does her very best not to laugh at _that_. 

“I do have a spreadsheet, though,” she continues, because flirting cannot replace the job they’re supposed to do. “We usually get dinner catered, just something small, finger foods, and then everyone brings a dessert. But we need to find a place to have it, find a caterer, decide how we’re decorating, pick a DJ, all that.”

“Do we have a budget?” Gillian asks, “or is Dick going to be the DJ?”

Dick, who is pushing eighty, would play Sinatra all night if they gave him the chance. 

“We have a budget,” Meghan says, “it’s on the spreadsheet.”

Gillian nods. They go back to their salads for a few seconds, and Meghan tries to imagine the party if they did let Dick play Sinatra all night. Would people slow dance? It’s absurd. It’s really a stupid question. She’s still imagining it when Gillian speaks again.

“If everything’s on the spreadsheet,” she says slowly, with that same spark of laughter in her voice, “is this just a social meeting?”

Meghan blushes. She cannot remember the last time she let a girl make her blush like this. It’s not even something worth blushing over, not dirty or even direct enough to mean anything, but here she is, blushing like crazy.

“What kind of finger food should we get?” she asks, instead of admitting that she mostly wanted lunch with Gillian to see what she’s like.

“Pigs in a blanket are always a big sell,” Gillian says, “and quiche for the vegetarians.”

“What about the vegans?” Meghan asks, even though she’s pretty sure they don’t have any.

“The vegans will have eaten before the party anyway,” Gillian says, “but if we want, we can have a salad bar of raw red cabbage.”

Meghan snorts. The rest of the lunch is just like that, taking turns making each other laugh and half-heartedly throwing around ideas. Gillian was right in feeling like the party was a little bit of a pretense, but Meghan knows as soon as she gets the spreadsheet open she’ll have a lot less time to flirt, so she clings to her lunch hour, and tries to learn as much about Gillian as she can.

Gillian, who went to _Dartmouth_. She has a cat named Lewis, two siblings, and wrote a thesis on the association between orthorexia nervosa scores and athletic participation in college students, because she was a college athlete herself--soccer--and wanted to spread some awareness about the mental strains that never got mentioned. It strikes Meghan as charming that Gillian is so open about it, so willing to talk about emotional struggles, but she can’t be sure whether or not that’s because she wanted to jump Gillian’s bones _before_ she knew Gillian was a genius.

-

The next time they meet up, they’re at a party supply store, picking their color scheme.

“I mean, red and green, right?” Meghan asks, steering the cart toward the streamer aisle.

“I dunno,” Gillian says, “we could do blue and white, holiday and winter themed, so it’s not just Christmas.”

“Oh,” Meghan says, “that’s a good idea.” She’s wondering why she and Kacey never thought of it before. It has something to do with the fact that both of them are obsessed with Christmas.

“Are you Jewish?” she asks Gillian, wondering if she seriously has been asking for help with a Christmas party all along from someone who doesn’t even celebrate it. Gillian grins, reaching up for some blue and white tablecloths. She’s tall enough that even for the top shelf she doesn’t need to get on her toes, but her sweater rides up, and Meghan stares at the strip of skin above Gillian’s jeans and belt for two full seconds before Gillian drops back onto her heels. They’re not at work, so she’s decided she doesn’t feel bad about it.

“No,” Gillian answers, “Apps is an old Christian English name. Meaning, someone who lives near aspen trees.”

“Duggan is an old Irish name,” Meghan says, “meaning ‘he who drinks his fellows under the table’.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me,” Gillian says. “us Englishmen can hold our grog.”

“Grog,” Meghan laughs, “so we’re pirates now. Aren’t you Canadian, anyway? All you guys drink is that crappy lager.”

“And straight maple syrup,” Gillian says, “nothing prepares you better for being very, very drunk.”

They’re flirting again, and not doing what they’re supposed to be doing.

“Napkins,” Meghan says, and Gillian places the tablecloths in the cart.

“Yes ma’am,” she answers, and Meghan rolls her eyes.

“Are there plus ones to this thing?” Gillian asks, and Meghan’s heart sinks.

“Um,” she says, “yeah, usually we say you can bring your significant other if you want.”

“I don’t have one,” Gillian laughs, “I was just wondering, because it doubles the amount of catered food we’d want to order.

“Oh,” Meghan says, “I usually order enough for everyone, and then an extra half that much.”

“Looks like you don’t need me as much as you thought,” Gillian teases. She’s the one picking out the napkins, though, and Meghan’s the one being useless, standing there with her hands on the cart handle, watching Gillian push her hair out of her face while she reads the labels, like there’s any difference between cocktail and dinner napkins. The thing is, there _is_ a difference, and Meghan appreciates that Gillian knows and cares. Kacey is never interested in those details and technicalities, which is why Meghan has a spreadsheet to begin with.

“Who would reach the top shelf for me if I didn’t have you?” Meghan asks.

“One of the dweeby twenty-something guys here who were in love with you the second you walked in,” Gillian says, and there certainly is a lot to unpack there.

“I am a twenty-something,” is what Meghan says first, because she’s curious about how old Gillian thought she was. Gillian is a little pink around the collar when she places the cocktail napkins--the right choice--in the cart.

“You’re not twenty-two,” Gillian says.

“No,” Meghan agrees, “how old do you think I am?”

“What do we need next?” Gillian asks, scratching the back of her neck.

“Toothpicks,” Meghan says, “and plastic champagne and drink glasses. How old do you think I am?”

Gillian turns so that she can lead the way to the silverware, and shrugs aggressively. Meghan kind of likes watching Gillian squirm. She knows she seems older than she is.

“Thirty,” Gillian says, “I guess. I thought you were closer to my age.”

“Which is thirty,” Meghan supplies.

“Not quite,” Gillian says, rounding a corner. She’s really speedwalking now, and Meghan is struggling with the cart, because one wheel is stuck. 

“Thirty-one,” Meghan guesses.

“Closer,” Gillian says. “We want both champagne and regular drinking glasses?”

“Yes,” Meghan says, “please. Thirty-two.”

“My God, Holmes,” Gillian says, in a faux British lilt, “I think you’ve got it.”

So Gillian is thirty-two. It’s exactly the right amount older for Meghan, who has no interest in dating someone in their twenties with no direction in her life. Gillian is settled, and cute, and, if Meghan is right, _definitely_ into her. She piles the drinkware into the cart, and Meghan rests her chin in her hand and makes it very obvious that she’s watching Gillian, specifically. Just in case Gillian needs the hint.

Later, when she drops Gillian off, she imagines going with Gillian up to her apartment. The building is clean, clearly old but remodeled recently, and she can see Gillian heading for the staircase. Meghan imagines an apartment on the second floor, on the corner, with a view of the street and a radiator tucked beneath the window. It feels like somewhere she’s been before.

“My God, Holmes,” Meghan says, mimicking Gillian’s impression, and pulls back into traffic.

-

The problem with Kacey being in Hawaii is that it means Meghan’s impulse control is also hundreds of miles away. Once they’ve booked the DJ (Gillian was kind enough to send the email, after Meghan did the research to pick who they wanted), and the caterer is booked, and the venue is booked, all that’s left is to decorate. 

“We have to do it the day of,” Meghan says, “before the party, since it’s not our space. I always take a half day from work, but you don’t have to.”

“Yeah I do,” Gillian says, “or I’m just going to sit there worrying that you’re doing the streamers wrong.”

“Wow,” Meghan says, “_wow_, first of all, I’ve been doing this for years.”

They don’t talk to each other at work, since they’re on opposite ends of the floor, and Meghan always worries she’s going to flirt with Gillian on the clock and get one or both of them in trouble. That’s how, after spending the day within the same four walls as Gillian, Meghan ends up on the phone with her. 

“I am very passionate about streamer orientation,” Gillian says.

“Well,” Meghan says, “then I’ll see you tomorrow at one. Do you want to call the DJ to check in with him tomorrow morning, or should I?”

“I can do it,” Gillian says, “if you do the caterers, they drive me nuts, that guy is way too chipper.”

“Deal,” Meghan says. It would have taken her twenty minutes to convince Kacey to make a phone call, which she hates doing. But Kacey would never have questioned how she does streamers, so it’s a fair trade-off. The main difference is that Gillian _wants_ to help, and Kacey was dragged into it, bribed with donuts and coffee. There’s some silence on the phone now, enough that for a second Meghan thinks she might have lost Gillian entirely.

“Are you bringing someone?” Gillian asks, and Meghan mentally fist-pumps.

“No,” she says, “I usually just bring Kacey, so…”

“Oh,” Gillian says, and Meghan goes from mentally fist-pumping to mentally facepalming.

“Not like that,” Meghan says, “not like...we’re not dating.”

“Okay,” Gillian says, laughing, and Meghan’s laughing, too. It’s stupid, the way they’re acting like they both don’t know what’s going on, but it’s the kind of stupid that’s fun, the kind of stupid that comes at the beginning of something, where you’re both too shy to be upfront about your feelings and too into it to pretend you have none.

“Well,” Gillian says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

-

Seeing Gillian again after that is an experience. They pass each other in the office, in the hallway. Gillian has a mug shaped like a snowman, and she smiles sheepishly at Meghan, who smiles back. They don’t say anything to each other, as if they’re in on some big secret. 

Gillian meets her at the event hall a little after lunch, and when she shrugs out of her gray blazer and rolls up her button-down sleeves, Meghan considers kissing her right then and there. But there’s a schedule to keep to.

“You wanna do the streamers?” Meghan asks.

“No,” Gillian says, “I want to see if you do them right. But I’ll do the tables.”

Meghan rolls her eyes. They work in silence for a few minutes before Gillian puts some music on her phone, and after a few minutes Meghan finally recognizes it, twisting around on her stepladder.

“Is this The Tragically Hip?” Meghan asks. Gillian, as it turns out, is right behind her, smoothing out a tablecloth on the nearest table. 

“I’m Canadian,” Gillian reminds her. 

“Shouldn’t we be listening to holiday music?” Meghan says, and Gillian shrugs. Meghan has twisted to face her, unrolling more of the streamers so that she can chirp Gillian more directly. 

“This is festive,” Gillian insists. She mouths along to the words, dramatically, closing her eyes, and Meghan shakes with suppressed laughter. She doesn’t have a good enough foothold to do that, and she sways dangerously, reaching out for anything to stop herself from falling, but there really isn’t anything _to_ grab. She’s imagining a dislocated elbow or a twisted ankle when Gillian swoops in and catches her with both hands on her waist.

Meghan’s hands are on Gillian’s shoulders. She’s still standing, sort of, on the stepstool, enough that very little of her weight is being supported by Gillian. She doesn’t have to hold on, now that she has her balance. But she wants to. It’s the perfect moment to lean down and kiss Gillian, whose eyes are bluer and wider than Meghan’s ever seen them.

“Don’t fall,” Gillian says.

“I won’t,” Meghan says, and Gillian lets her go.

-

The party is perfect.

When Meghan gets back from changing into her party clothes, Gillian is already there, mid-conversation, in a soft cream sweater over the same button-down that Meghan rumpled earlier. They make eye contact from across the room, and Gillian blushes, and Meghan smiles.

Later, when Gillian finds her outside, taking a break from nosy coworkers and endless renditions of Jingle Bell Rock, Meghan is startled by her voice.

“So what do you think?” Gillian asks, hands deep in her pockets. She looks so much younger like this, without the pressure of talking to her boss or their coworkers, that it’s easy for Meghan to tell she’s still nervous.

“I think you’re a great party planner,” Meghan says, “thank you for helping me. It’s never been that easy before.”

Gillian shrugs.

“Just followed your spreadsheet,” she says sheepishly, and Meghan takes a step forward, so that they’re both under the awning.

“You’d be surprised how hard that is to do,” Meghan says.

“Nothing’s hard with you,” Gillian says, and then she blushes again, so deeply that Meghan can see it even in the streetlights. 

When she finally closes the space between them, cupping the back of Meghan’s neck in her hand and leaning down to kiss her, it starts to snow.


End file.
